Saturday, 17 November 2012

A letter

Today was a pretty good day. We woke up at a reasonable time rather than halfway through our Saturday (which is what we usually do) and then we went to the bank and then you took me to a bakery for our breakfast. We ordered tea and Ulster frys (and then you bought, like, seven buns because they're so cheap. We've managed to eat one. Who's gonna eat the other six?) You told me about the previous owners who used to babysit you and you'd spend your afternoons watching buns being made. I asked if you were a chubby child and apparently you were.

In the afternoon we ended up having to write important letters because of this buying-house-business and time ticked away. When we were driving home after buying stamps and posting letters I said there was no point in going to Lisburn today after all because it was too late if you wanted to be back in time for football and I know you didn't really want to go to Lisburn anyway. You drove past our house and when I asked you what you were doing you said "We're going to Lisburn." And we didn't get back in time for football but you never said a word about it. We ordered a giant pizza and watched TV.

In 16 hours you have to leave for a business trip and it SUCKS. Hurry back, please.


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